


Carry On

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Season 3 episode 5 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to tragedy, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes do just as he says they must, and carry on living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> Do not read if you don't want season three spoilers. This occurs during/after the events of episode 5.

“Mr Carson?” His bowed frame standing in the shadows of the servant's hall caught her eye as she passed on the way back to her bedroom. It was late and she had not expected to find anyone still about; dressed in her bedclothes as she was, she had a thought to walk past without a word, but something in his manner stopped her. He was half turned away from her so she could not see his face, but his carriage disturbed her. She had never seen him slumped over that way—never except when he had taken ill. The thought stopped her heart for a moment. “Are you all right, Mr Carson?”

He made a soft grunting noise that assured her at once that he was physically fine, but perhaps not altogether fine. She stepped into the room and set her tray down on the long table, watching him closely. He turned fully away from her, feeling the weight of her gaze. She scowled in frustration even as she forced a bright note into her voice, trying to draw him out. “I was just going to have a cup of tea, Mr Carson. Would you care to join me?”

He made no reply, and she didn't know whether to react in concern or irritation. Her words could have passed for either as she prodded him, “Mr Carson...”

She saw his shoulders slowly rise and fall, his chin fall to his chest. “Mrs Hughes--” His voice broke. He could not go on.

“What is it?” She asked the question, but she already knew the answer, somehow, the moment he faltered. She was at his side in an instant, imploring him to unburden himself, only to say it, and let her take on some measure of his grief. She watched him try to regain his control over himself, he would have to in another minute, a task fell to him to perform. If he could not get through it with her, he never would with the others.

“She's gone,” he managed finally, the words coming out through ragged breaths, exhausted, defeated. There was no mistaking his meaning. It might have been either of them, mother or child, but Elsie knew from his anguished face which it was. He would have mourned for the babe, but found solace in the thought that they were young, could try again. She saw he not only mourned but despaired. It was not the child. There would be no second chances.

“Sybil?” She was surprised to hear her own voice break, surprised to realize she could manage no more than two syllables herself. She bit her lower lip as tears sprang to her eyes, unexpected, painful tears. She shook her head slightly, a violent, instinctive jerk, as if she could reject it out of hand, make it not so.

He took in a long slow breath, raising himself again to his full height as he released it. “Yes,” he said, finally allowing himself to look at her. 

She was barely stopping herself from shaking now, in rage, in disbelief, becoming more emotional even as he steadied himself. “But she was just fine, she--”

“Dr Clarkson told me – I couldn't understand it all, I was too...” He shook his head. It was unacceptable that he had allowed his grief to interfere with his understanding of the doctor's message. “Tapsell, he overlooked something...” He trailed off, closing his eyes again, composing himself. Reminded himself there was a job to do now. 

She watched him build up the wall, the terrible wall she could see through but not penetrate. She felt his pain almost viscerally, and wished she could do something more than share it, he on his side of the wall and she on hers, feeling and thinking as one, but remaining alone. She wanted to reach out to him, comfort him, embrace him really, sob into his shoulder, but they did not do those things, they did not have that sort of relationship. 

Absurd, it was absurd; why shouldn't they have that sort of relationship? She would have held any one of her maids if they were that close to crying, taken a footman's hands in her own if he had looked so broken, so desperate. But somehow she could not reach out to Carson, touch his arm gently even, let him feel a bit of the warm reassurance she would lavish on any of the rest of them, and in turn see the relief on his face, know that pain was not merely being transferred one to the other, but being soothed, replaced by something else. Absurd; after all, he was her-- Her thoughts snagged there, could not proceed. Was there a word for what he was to her? Was that why she could not, should not – _wanted to, needed to?_

“We should round everyone up, tell them what's happened,” he said, finding some reserve of strength somewhere to face the task.

“Everyone has gone to bed—don't you think it can wait until the morning?”

“If we wait, it will get to them before we can tell them, it will be chaos, we'll never get the matter in hand again.”

She saw he was becoming agitated again and nodded, yielding to him as she often did when it cost her nothing to do so. It would give him back the feeling of control, the feeling of having a purpose, a job to do, if only for a moment. If she could not comfort him the other way, she could at least give him that.

“All right, I'll round up the maids.” She gave him one last, long pained smile, then turned to go, to do her part of the job, to help him, to make him feel they were in this together, one, not alone. To give him that illusion.

“Mrs Hughes...” He called out abruptly to stay her.

“Yes?” She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, expectantly.

He frowned, searching for the words he had intended. He had called for her before he knew why. 

She turned all the way to face him again, softening her face to make it easier on him, forever making things easier on him when she wasn't of a mind to make things harder. No longer expectant. She expected nothing; she never did.

Sheepishly, he frowned. The words he wanted eluded him. He substituted, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For... everything.” He shrugged helplessly.

She understood and yet she did not understand, just as she knew he did and yet did not quite know what he was saying, what he meant to say. There was always that, at the edge of their conversations, despite their closeness, despite the frankness of their talks at times, there was always that which was never quite said, was half-understood. She smiled back at him and nodded. Perhaps it did not matter what exactly it was. Whatever he meant, she was quite certain she felt the same. 

 

~~~

 

She stood by his side, a force together, united as they always were in front of the staff who would see that through whatever lens they chose. Tonight, standing half-asleep in their bedclothes, their expressions ones of mixed shock and sorrow, no matter what else Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes were to them, tonight they were the only thing holding the lot of them together.

“Is there anything we should do, Mr Carson?” Daisy spoke up, in her timid but frank way, asking the question they all wished to, the question to which all but she knew the answer was _no._

“Carry on, Daisy,” he replied with all the authority he could summon, his voice faltering again. “As we all must.”

Elsie had let him speak, not sure she could get through it herself, and knowing it meant something to him if he could. She stood by his side, there for him, apart from him, staring at a spot on the floor. She could not look at Anna, or Daisy, or Thomas—Thomas of all people was taking the news hard. She blinked back the tears she was unwilling to shed until she was properly alone—away from them, away even from him—lost in her private pain. But when his voice faltered she looked to him; her own pain she could bear but his ate at her terribly. She wished she could do something: touch him, squeeze his hand gently. She wanted to hold him. Wanted to be held by him. Turn his pain into something right and good. She looked down again, putting those thoughts away. 

He walked away. He had said all he needed to. His departure from her side was a wrench; she felt bereft all over again. All the care she needed to give, to receive, was left there on the floor she stared at. She looked up, saw Daisy still looking helpless, still wondering _but what should I do?_ She snatched the girl and held her tightly, almost aggressively, enveloping her in her strong arms and soft body. She did so because she saw Daisy about to break, fall, needed someone to catch her; she did so because she needed steadying herself. And needed to steady.

She roamed the downstairs halls until everyone had finally dispersed, wandering in stupefaction back to their rooms, a mother hen tending to her chicks. This was her instinct, just as Carson's was to do his duty, but it was so second nature it required no thought, and she was lost in the things that did; it was a poor substitute for what she needed to give and to receive. But those who milled about were there perhaps because she could help them. He had walked away. She could not help him; he would not allow it.

She saw Anna and Thomas comforting each other, said something, barely registering her own words. She wanted to crush each of them against her body as she had done to Daisy, tightly enough to feel their hearts beating, to reassure herself that life did, as he said, carry on.

It might help for a moment, but it would not soothe her. The one person she needed this reassurance from was the one person she could not touch, not in that way. There was almost no way she could touch him that would be—what? Proper. Safe. They were equals, friends—surely if there was anyone she could comfort and be comforted by it was him. And yet somehow he was the very last one. 

Still she needed to see him again, to at least see the life in his eyes, show him that she still lived. Show him that whatever else happened, they would go on being for each other exactly what they had always been. She needed not to be alone, although she knew in the back of her mind she would be lonelier still after she left him for the last time that night. It was so every night. Tonight, it might be almost unbearable, but she couldn't think of later, only of how much she needed him now.

She walked into his pantry without her customary knock—the knock that meant nothing, she never waited for his permission to enter, but now she dispensed with even that formality. He was facing the door now and he did not turn away, as if he had expected her, wanted her. 

“Are you all right, Mr Carson?” she asked quietly. A pointless question. No words could say what she wanted to.

“I knew her all her life, you see. I've known her since she was born.”

There were the tears again. She mourned the loss of Sybil but—it might be terrible, but it was true—what was harder to bear still was to see him this way. Death after all was harder on the living. On poor Tom, on the girl who would never know her mother, on Cora, on all of them, it stabbed at her when she thought of each of them in turn, but this man, who so loved those girls, this family, _his_ family, he believed—witnessing his pain almost broke her. _Let me be your family,_ the unspoken thought crossed her mind. _If anyone in this world can be, I can. If anyone can heal you now, I can._

Unable to bear it silently, to carry on as they always did together and alone, she reached out to him. If she had thought about it first she would not have done it; she was too exhausted to rely on anything but instinct now. Her instinct to mother, to comfort, was too strong. No, that was not right—comfort him, yes, but this was not a mothering gesture. Her mothering gestures were fierce, sure; her fingers now were tentative, offering rather than insisting, unsure of the response—allowing the possibility of rejection.

He did not reject her. He took her hand in his—receptive, needy. There was a crack in the wall he put up tonight and once exposed it all came crumbling down. He placed his own hand over hers, covering it completely, prying her hand loose to curl his fingers between them, so that she could hold onto him while he held onto her. 

She allowed him to feel his pain, to get it out, that was it—she allowed him to dispense with the quiet bereavement he showed downstairs, the solemn acceptance he showed upstairs, the pent-up numbness he experienced even when alone. With her, he could feel. It was always so, in his heart, the one outlet he allowed himself lay in the things he said to her, the things he felt only in her company, and even so he kept it to himself. But this time, she was allowing him to feel, to show, to share. She offered a line tentatively, he grasped it with both hands, and now she was reeling him in, squeezing his fingers back and stroking the other hand beneath hers, caressing him as well as she could under the pressure of his own hand.

And then all at once it snapped. He opened himself to her, he let down the wall, the light touch of her hand was a heavy weight on thin chord that held him together and it snapped. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, unbidden, unstoppable; he could not remember the last time he had cried, certainly did not know the last time he had cried in front of anyone. It was shameful—should have been shameful, would have been shameful even yesterday to cry in front of her, but this was now and something had changed the moment she reached out to him and he could not even find it in himself to be embarrassed, he only closed his eyes and tried to breathe, was powerless to stop his body from purging this bottomless ache. It was Sybil and it was more than Sybil. It was everyone and everything that had died or might have died, could die, would die. There was more than one way to lose a life and they had slowly been losing it for years.

She unclasped her hands from his; now that she had started touching him nothing seemed past reason. Her only concern was that this be right, that he would not be disturbed by it and retreat into his armor of decorum, but the wall was down and she was not afraid anymore; in fact she could not stop touching him. Slowly, she moved her hands up his arms, felt his body clench in sobs when she reached his shoulders, then thrust her arms around him, as if she could wring the pain from his body. He was a large man but she held him as fiercely as she had held Daisy before, crushing him to her body, running strong, firm hands up and down his back. She felt him go limp in her arms and that was when her own tears began to fall, sorrow that came from the same places as his own, unspoken but shared. It was hard to say exactly where this veered from her usual maternal embraces but this was different, in her heart it was different, and if anyone should walk in now they would know it was different. His door was still open, anyone might see, but she could not spare a care for that thought now.

He let himself go, finally, accepting her caresses, burying his face against the soft material of her dressing gown, knew this was wrong, too far already, but he did not allow that thought, or any of the other niggling objections, to stop him. He needed this now. He needed her strength and her shared weakness and the obvious awareness of her _life_ pressed against him. 

Neither was consciously aware of the moment his face drifted from her shoulder to her neck but it was there now, his breath hot against her skin, lips brushing the soft skin there. It was not a decision made, nothing either had intended to do definitely or finally, but there was no going back from here, no rebuilding that wall, his breath was on her skin and now his lips were, too, the tears had stopped for the moment and there was only this warmth and understanding between them.

And suddenly he was kissing her neck, actively kissing her neck, there was no confusing it with anything else. His breath was coming out unsteadily now for entirely different reasons, she was warm and soft and she took care of him, oh how she took care of him, and he just wanted to show her his gratitude somehow, return some of that tenderness, show her how he actually worshiped her, that that was what he could not say. His lips were slow and, yes, worshipful as they worked their way from the base of her neck to her jaw and she turned her head slowly to allow him to explore as he desired.

This was what she had wanted, had needed, she could feel his heartbeat and his breath and he felt so alive, his fragility only making him seem more strong and real in her arms. She turned her head back toward him, cheek crushed awkwardly to forehead, then shifting, his lips on her jawline now, moving timidly but tenderly toward her mouth; his hands were on her hips, pulling her closer. They both felt alive, did not want to reject that _aliveness,_ not now, not ever again. 

He stopped short of kissing her mouth, his lips on her chin, breath caught in both their throats. They stood frozen that way, neither had a sense for how long, unwilling to let go, uncertain how to proceed, still and raw and nervous in this unexpected, irrevocable moment.

She pulled back finally, looked at him dead on. Any reticence was gone, but not the uncertainty. Saw him wither under her hard stare, look away guiltily. No—this could end one of several ways, she told herself, but not in slinking off guiltily. Not feeling worse than they had started. Not this time. She squeezed his hand again, forced him to return his eyes to her face, smiled—a reassuring smile, her same old smile. _It's just me, your Mrs Hughes. Wherever we go from here, I'm still your Mrs Hughes._

He returned her smile, the embarrassed small smile he sometimes showed only to her, still her Mr Carson. Then he shook his head.

“We can't—”

“I know,” she said, nodding sadly as she looked down.

“--stay here,” he finished his thought, frowning as the implication of her words registered; registering his at the same time, she was now smiling. They were all out of sync.

Then they both laughed lightly, awkwardly. To get from his pantry to his bedroom or hers, required intent, required an acknowledgment of their own desire and the other's, required a _conversation_ really—a conversation neither hand the words or the strength to have.

Both opened and closed their mouths uselessly. They could not ask, could not say. _What is this? What do you want? Just tonight? Let me comfort you. Let us comfort each other. I've wanted this to happen for a long time. Please. I need you. I love you._

The words were not spoken but they were plain on their faces, plain as they always were. There was nothing strictly new in the way her eyes teased and implored him gently, without expectation, nor in the way his face softened almost against his will as he looked down at her, but for the first time each fully understood the meaning of all that was never said. She squeezed his hand again, and took a step back, back toward the door. As if tied to her by invisible strings he moved with her, first the initial step, then each that followed, inexorable now, she led him backwards and he followed as they danced toward the door.

 

~~~

 

They still did not speak even when they reached her room, not even sighs of the other's name between kisses, because they had no name for one another now: Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson had been left behind somewhere; Elsie and Charles seemed odd and unearned. Nor did they make soft confessions of the feeling that existed between them: they did not have the word for it; love, was it? The only thing that made sense now was the touch and feel of the other, that was _right_ ; what was wrong was its lack, any distance between them. In lieu of words they conversed with small, strong touches reminding each other that they were here, that they were alive, that life went on, that it was not always fair, not always happy, but that this was real and fine and good and this was _now._

They did not wait for a last reassuring glance once on the other side of her door. They no longer needed it; they trusted, understood finally, they believed. That their feelings were real. That they were not alone in them. That they were right in them. That they could make something good and whole with them this way, together.

His hands, strong hands, cupped the sides of her face tenderly, reverently as he kissed her here against her door, lavishing long hard kisses on her lips. He wanted to kiss her just that way, softly, sweetly, for hours, make love to her slowly, worship her like a goddess, but that was the part of his brain that believed they had all the time in the world, that they could afford to take some small pleasure now and leave the rest for another day, meted out carefully, never taking more than what was due. He knew now that he could not depend upon there being more time, other chances. It should not have taken this, this loss, this death, to make him really understand.

_He had almost lost her once before._

He pushed her harder against the door at the thought of it, crushing her between the lifeless, unyielding wood and his soft, warm body, not permitting any space to pass between them now. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, feel her heartbeat, her pulse racing just as his was – that was what he needed to feel, the evidence that she was alive, and _fully_ alive at that, that she was much more than the woman who had stood by his side for years silently sublimating her own desires to serve others, that she was a hot-blooded, wanting woman who wanted him. He pinned her against the door there, pinned her down as if he could assure himself she could never leave, never be taken from him, and he went on kissing her furiously now, giving his breath, taking in hers.

She ran her hands up and down his body, roaming the vast landscapes there, confirming the contours of a map she had created only by sight. Her hands were the only part of her that was free and she did not, just then, want to be free, she wanted to be crushed by him, wanted to be closer than even this would allow, wanted to make a home for herself in the empty places inside him, light a fire there to warm herself, warm him from the inside out. The strange image struck her just then, absurdly, there as he pressed against her so ardently, so seriously, and she laughed, couldn't help but laugh, a low rumble in the back of her throat and she threw her head back against the door, holding onto his arms now for support.

He traced the lines of her neck with his fingers, gentle fingers followed by harder lips, tracing the path from her chin to her collarbone, the great expanse of exquisite skin she had exposed to him, the fragile bones just beneath. Her laughter pulsed under his lips, he kissed her laughter, kissed the beautiful spirit within her that could laugh in a moment like this, thought he understood her laughter. Another time, under other circumstances, if they had tried this as they both surely had wanted to, her laughter would have scared him, confused him, angered him perhaps even, but tonight he understood, believed they felt as one, knew she laughed in pleasure, laughed because she was alive and here with him. He unfastened the top button of her nightdress, then the second, slowly pressing hard, hot kisses against the skin he found there, laughing himself now at what should seem so brazen, didn't ask for her permission, didn't look to her even for a sign, just took what he wanted, branded it with lips and tongue.

She took his head in her hands and pressed it to her, ran her fingers through his immaculate hair, mussing it to her liking, kneading his scalp. She looked down again, kissed his brow lightly as she enjoyed his touch, sighed against the skin that was creased there, permanently in age, presently in concentration. She thought vaguely, not sadly, of the years that had gone by, both of them wanting this, she knew that now, they both had wanted this always, but never reached out and took it. They had both put it off, as if the other would always be there, both thinking later, someday they might. As if it didn't matter whether or not they ever did. The tears, then, tears were in her eyes again, thinking of it. If this life could be lost then certainly they could lose each other any day. And it mattered, oh it mattered.

She slipped her hands between their bodies, heard his faint groan of protest at the small distance it put between them. She laughed again, blinked back the tears. He was such a little boy, focused on the immediate pleasures without a thought for larger ones to come. There would have to be some distance first if they ever wanted to get closer. And she wanted, needed that closeness now, could not bear to delay a moment longer, they had delayed all the time they had known each other and they had been wrong, wrong. She untied the knot holding his dressing gown closed, running her palms over his abdomen and sides as she peeled it away from him, eliciting another groan in a slightly different key. She worked at the knot of her own robe, then, feeling his hands close more tightly on her shoulders in anticipation. Another time, under other circumstances, she would have been terrified to expose her body to his eyes, uncertain whether it would live up to the images he had no doubt entertained, embarrassed by every wrinkle, every curve that was not quite where it once was. But tonight she had no fear, knew it was the reality of her body he wanted, that he wanted nothing but _her_ , _her_ body as a tangible means to _her_ life. 

She drew back the garment and he pressed against her again, reestablishing contact, he too not hesitating when he might otherwise have done, because tonight there was no need to hide the effect she had on him. She gasped slightly as she became aware of his erection pressing against her, knew that he was as ready and needy as she was. She bucked her pelvis against him hard; another night, another time, she might have been ashamed, it was a conscious, wanton motion, desperate, forward. But tonight she would not let him wonder for a moment if he were alone in any of this. And tonight she would not simply wait for him to realize he was not.

She bucked against him and he returned the movement, harder, pinning her against the door again, positioning himself more directly, his hips locked against hers. Both moaned lightly in response, breath coming more ragged and unsteady, and both realized it would be over quickly; too many years of pent-up feeling burned just beneath the surface of their skin and once a drop was released it would all come pouring out of them like a dam bursting. It would be quick, it could probably be over here against her door, they could probably end it without removing another scrap of clothing. For a moment their eyes locked, and they saw that the other shared this knowledge, that it was for both of them a powerful and terrifying thing, that the pleasure itself would mean less than this knowledge that they had this effect on the other. They both took a long, deep breath, awed by the strength of what existed between them.

And then they let it go.

They exhaled, their lips met again, their bodies rejoined, their hands clawed at each other looking for purchase, a vain struggle because they were going to go over this cliff and they were going together. 

“Bed--” she gasped between kisses, knowing a moment or two more and they would no longer have the presence of mind to make that choice, nor the bodily ability to carry it out. The idea of taking him in there against the door did not bother her, in fact it excited her almost unbearably, and if they were so lucky as to be granted another chance perhaps they might, but for now she wanted nothing to stop her from holding him close, impossibly close, as he moved inside of her, and to hold him uninterrupted after he stilled. She wanted him in her bed and that was where she would have him.

They moved haltingly across the short distance, dispensing with the rest of their clothing as they went, pausing to kiss and touch, never dropping the thread that connected their hearts, their souls, their life—whatever it was that bound one to the other, that was here now and that could be gone tomorrow.

She was naked when she slinked into her bed, in repose, reaching out to him. He was naked as he stood there looking down at her, taking the brief moment or two he could bear it to take in the sight of her, every curve, all the softness, the breath that heaved in her chest, the heart that beat for him. He took her hand then, and sat on the side of the bed, his hip resting against hers, his large, strong hands cupping her face again as he leaned down to kiss her, lightly, then sat up again as his hands traced the lines of her body, down past her shoulders, feeling the weight of her breasts in his palm, down, down over her stomach, hip and thigh, where his hand came to rest. There was not a question now, only a moment in time to appreciate, and be grateful, that they shared this life and this love.

Her fingers reached out to him, played across his chest, pulling him down to join her, and he followed, as he would follow, wherever she asked.

Their lips met again as he turned, positioned himself over her, hovering, the tip of his cock barely grazing her thigh. He felt her shiver as that contact was made, knew she was as close as he was. They explored each other's mouths more thoroughly than before as she lay back completely, hips and shoulder blades burying into the bed as she arched to meet him, lowering himself now, their tongues darting and plunging as the need to be inside one another became more conscious and present, his hipbones now touching hers, his arms finding the right leverage around hers, her hands pulling him closer and closer as they kissed and licked and sucked, any distance between them now was intolerable and she wrapped her arms around him, crossed as far across his back as she could, pulling him down, willing him to crush her, _it's all right, I'm here, I'm alive, I won't break._ He groaned as she embraced him with her legs, strong legs drawing him closer too, opening for him. With his next breath he was inside of her.

They swallowed each other's sounds of pleasure in their frantic kisses, it was overwhelming to be joined this way, beyond any thoughts they had ever entertained or tried to keep at bay. They were one; this living, breathing life was part of both of them now, enlarged by its reduction to one single, shared force. He filled every inch of her body, she felt; she enveloped him completely, anything outside of her was lost to him now. They moved against one another, opposed, in harmony; steadily, building, now out of time, now in sync. She held him tightly, impossibly more tightly against her as they rocked and pushed and shook against one another, and he gave up all pretense of holding back, of shielding her from the strength of his love and his need, burying his head in her shoulder and his cock deeper, deeper within her.

She felt it then, the warm, wet spill of tears against her skin—he was crying, a slow stream that grew into a gasping outpouring, wracking sobs that came from deep within, from a source he could not consciously understand or name, something beyond Sybil, beyond his love and fear and need for Elsie, something that had been growing inside him like undetected cancer for years, his whole life even--

_He had almost lost her once before._

The thought came to him again, what a thought, now, when she could not possibly be more alive, when he had never felt more alive, never more real, never more present, never more _happy_ if that was even the word for it, and here he was thinking of her death and all his regrets and every other thing he could not name and it was pouring out of him in shuddering sobs, and that was it, wasn't it, if he was then fully alive for the first time perhaps ever that was life, all of this pouring from him now was life.

Life he would not hold back from her now, and he did not apologize for or choke back his tears, and she understood them better than he did, cried herself now, for him, for herself, for what they shared, for life what they could never share. She stroked his back gently even as the movements of their hips became more rough, more desperate, and the noises coming from her throat shifted uncontrollably from soothing whispers to low gasps of pleasure and screams of the most beautiful pain.

He focused on her, what was here, what mattered, what gave him strength, what gave him life, and the tears slowed and then stopped. He lifted his head to find her lips again, wordlessly saying all that was in his heart, believing she understood, a language they were writing together with every touch. He focused on her and the feeling of being inside her, together with her, alive with her; and blind fool that he often was he saw what he did to her, saw her love for him in her face, her face which now took on a new calm and strain, her eyes closed lightly, she bit her lip hard. He brushed her bitten lip with his own, felt her clench and tighten in response to the softness, the slowness. He wished he could draw this out for her forever, but it would end, as everything did, it would end long before they would have wished it. That was life; that was all they had.

He plunged into her then, harder still then before, and heard her first scream of shock, and those that followed after in pleasure, pain, and after a time, relief. The sight of her, the sound of her, the feel of her, the _reality_ of her urged him on and moments later a shuddering, heaving release like he had never known accompanied one final outpouring, his gasps a prayer for the departed, a wish for the living, and a hope that this new love, this enduring love, this ancient love, would never die.

She held him inside of her for long moments after, running her fingertips lightly up and down his back, holding onto the feeling, the closeness, as long as they could. Then, with some sadness, she allowed him to withdraw from her. Everything beautiful ended, but continued, too. He gathered her in is arms, holding her strong but infinitely fragile body against his chest, entwining his legs with hers. They still did not speak. There was nothing to say; for tonight, there existed between them perfect understanding. Neither spared a thought for how things would be tomorrow, or in the days to come, if they were blessed to have them. For tonight, they were made real and whole in one another. They did only as they must; they carried on.


End file.
